


Praedosis

by whitchry9



Series: Carpe Diem [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drugs, Epilepsy, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Overdose, Seizures, cardiac arrest - Freeform, pre-john days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 08:19:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade shows up at Sherlock's flat one day and finds things are not going well at all.<br/>Based on an incident mentioned in Luctor et Emergo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It had been a week since Lestrade had gotten a case that he could take to Sherlock and wouldn't be laughed out of the flat at. It still wasn't quite up to Sherlock's standards, but Lestrade knew that Sherlock needed to get out of his flat, even if it was just for an hour or so.

He didn't bother knocking, knowing that even if Sherlock was awake, or not thinking, he wasn't likely to come to the door anyway. Lestrade had a key for a reason, but it wasn't needed today. The clot had left his door unlocked, which really wasn't safe, a fact which Lestrade had urged Sherlock to consider before, with him only shrugging in response. He said he had nothing to steal, which was true, but still made Lestrade uneasy.

“Sherlock,” he called, letting himself in to the tiny flat. There was no sign of Sherlock in the room that passed as a living room and kitchen, although he could have been buried in one of the stacks of papers that were precariously placed around the room. The kitchen was mostly taken up by the pieces of glassware and plastic containers that Sherlock called a chemistry set. Lestrade recalled a rant during which Sherlock went on about how Mycroft had taken away his good chemistry set until he could 'behave'. Sherlock had even said it like that, making quotations in the air with his fingers as he rolled his eyes. Lestrade smiled and headed towards the bedroom.

 

Sherlock was sprawled on top of the covers of his unmade bed. Lestrade was surprised that Sherlock had slept in it recently enough that it appeared unmade.

“Sherlock,” he called, not wanting to wake the detective up if he was indeed sleeping.

The consulting detective cracked his eyes open at the mention of his name, but didn't say anything, and almost seemed stunned.

Lestrade looked closer and noticed that Sherlock's eyes were huge and his face was flushed. He placed the back of his hand to Sherlock's forehead, like a mother would do with a sick child. He was burning up. Lestrade didn't know if it was because Sherlock was sick with a fever, or from the drugs, or something else entirely.

“You're high,” he said accusingly.

Sherlock grinned stupidly at him and wagged his fingers.

“La'erz...” he mumbled, and shortly after that, he stiffened.

“Dammit!” Lestrade swore, attempting to turn Sherlock on his side, knowing that the risk of him throwing up was increased.

He didn't know what sort of effects cocaine could have on epilepsy, or the reverse. Did seizures happen sometimes with a cocaine overdose?

Lestrade had no clue, and made up his mind that if the seizure went past the four minute mark, which no seizure that he'd witnessed Sherlock have had done before, then he would call an ambulance.

He struggled to remove Sherlock's shirt as he kept pulling his limbs away. He finally tore it off, perhaps yanking a couple buttons off, but not really caring.

He was torn between running to the kitchen and grabbing a cold cloth for Sherlock and making sure he stayed on his side.

Lestrade glanced at the timer on his phone. Three minutes, thirty seconds.

Sherlock didn't stop in the next thirty seconds.

Lestrade called for an ambulance.

At the six minute mark, Sherlock finally stilled.

Lestrade took that opportunity to dash to the sink in the kitchen, douse a dishcloth, and fill up a cup with cold water. He didn't bother to look for ice in the freezer, knowing he was more likely to find body part, and he sure as hell wasn't using those to cool him down.

He dripped water all over his chest and placed the washcloth on his forehead, scanning the room for something else he could use. Socks.

Lestrade grabbed them and dipped them in the cup, draping them around Sherlock's neck.

 

He became vaguely aware of sirens like one would of an alarm clock waking them up in the morning, so distracted by what he was doing that it almost didn't register.

It was hard to ignore when paramedics started beating on the door.

Lestrade bellowed at them to come in, and two paramedics appeared, one older than the other, carrying bags of equipment and pulling a stretcher along.

“What's going on?” the younger man asked.

“He's epileptic,” Lestrade blurted, not caring what Sherlock would think. If he would ever think anything again, Lestrade would be damn well pleased. “He'd been seizing for about six minutes, which was when I called for the ambulance, but he's stopped now. I also think he's overdosed on cocaine, which could be related, but I don't know. He probably hasn't been taking his meds, so...”

The younger man stared at him for a second before nodding and setting to work.

“Diazepam?” he asked his companion, who froze for a second before resuming inserting a cannula into Sherlock's arm.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “For overdoses yes, but not for the status. Go with lorazepam.”

The younger man nodded, drawing up a syringe and injecting it into the line the other man had taped firmly to Sherlock's arm.

Sticky pads were placed on Sherlock's chest and a cuff was placed around the arm that didn't have the IV. The sticky pads were connected to wires which led to a machine with a digital readout, marking Sherlock's heartbeat, and when a probe was placed on his finger, the amount of oxygen in his blood.

The older man looked at the screen and back to the blood pressure cuff.

“His blood pressure is through the roof. Give him adenosine, 6mg push.”

The younger man obeyed, and an oxygen mask was placed on Sherlock's face.

“The fever is worrying,” he told Lestrade, “but you did good with the water to cool him down.”

Lestrade breathed a sigh of relief as they loaded Sherlock onto a gurney and carried him down the flight of stairs to the waiting ambulance.

The younger man looked at him for a second, about to ask if he was family, when Lestrade flipped his badge out.

“I'll be coming too,” he informed them, leaving no room for argument.

He nodded, and Lestrade clambered in after Sherlock was in place.


	2. Chapter 2

The younger man drove, which Lestrade was immeasurably relieved about. He seemed to still be in training, and while he thought that was wonderful, he didn't want him treating Sherlock. Lestrade kept an eye on the monitors, and while not knowing what any of the spikes meant, was still relieved that they were there at all.

The older paramedic smiled at him reassuringly, and Lestrade didn't like that.

He pushed another syringe full of medication into the IV line and Lestrade couldn't help but ask.

“What's that?”

“Adenosine,” he explained. “We gave him a dose before, but it wasn't having enough of an effect. It's to try and bring down his blood pressure, which is contributing to the fever.”

They'd draped a cooling blanket over Sherlock, but Lestrade could tell that his temperature still wasn't anywhere near normal.

Lestrade was afraid to clasp his hand, worried that he'd only make him warmer.

 

Sherlock was still unconscious when, a moment later, his body stiffened again.

“He's seizing again,” the paramedic noted grimly, attempting to roll Sherlock on his side. Lestrade reached over to pull Sherlock towards him as the seizing began.

“He's seizing again Paul!” the paramedic bellowed, grabbing yet another syringe to inject into Sherlock's IV line.

Paul, who must have been the driver said something into a radio, and received a reply that he couldn't make out either.

Still gripping Sherlock to keep him on his side, Lestrade pulled out his phone and reset the timer.

He knew this wasn't good.

 

Sherlock stopped seizing just before they reached the hospital, and Lestrade helped roll him onto his back again. It had only been three minutes, but Lestrade had never know Sherlock to have more than one seizure at a time. More than one in a day perhaps, but not without waking up in between.

 

Lestrade rushed to keep up with the gurney once it was unloaded from the ambulance as the paramedic sped along, spewing numbers to the woman who'd appeared. She seemed to be the doctor, even though Lestrade felt old looking at her. That just wasn't fair.

“Known epileptic in status. Six minutes at the scene, then another three minutes in the ambulance. Pulse is elevated at 135 bpm, blood pressure is also high after 12 mg of adenosine at 171 over 95, temp is 39, and that's after being doused with water at the scene and a cooling blanket. Resps are weak at 10, but I didn't want to tube him while he was seizing. Possible cocaine overdose, definite intoxication, although we can't tell if that's the cause of the seizure or not.”

The doctor nodded, accepting all this information, breathing it in like air.

“Alright,” she said. “We'll tube him right away then.”

Sherlock was rolled into a room, and Lestrade had the presence of mind to wait outside.

The older paramedic came out of the room and put a hand on Lestrade's shoulder.

“I hope he recovers quickly,” he said, smiling at Lestrade, and they both knew the underlying sentiment.

_I hope he survives._

“Me too,” Lestrade whispered, and the man left, leaving him to watch as the young doctor expertly inserted a tube into Sherlock's throat to breathe for him.

 

A nurse came out of the room.

“Can I help you sir?” she asked, not sounding at all like she was interested in helping, but rather in removing him from the line of sight.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade. I'll be staying with him,” Lestrade told them, flashing his badge, and knew that he would continue to until it was absolutely impossible for him be with Sherlock, or at least nearby observing.

She relented and returned to the room just as one of the alarms went off.

 

The young doctor started doing CPR on Sherlock and it was all Lestrade could do to stay on his feet.

_His heart had stopped. Oh god._

There were hurried orders of drugs and procedures, but Lestrade couldn't hear any of it.

The nurse stopped squeezing the bag forcing air into Sherlock's lungs and stood back. The doctor performing CPR did the same, and instead pressed paddles to Sherlock's chest. To jolt his heart back into working. It didn't seem to work, because she resumed CPR for a minute. Then they shocked him again, his body spasming like he was having a seizure, except he wasn't. The doctor looked at the monitor with a satisfied expression. Sherlock's heart was beating again.

Lestrade sank to the floor, nearly crying with relief.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock had one more seizure while in A&E, then he was transferred to intensive care. Lestrade used his badge to force his way into Sherlock's room, where he sat by his bedside until the man showed up. He was made to leave, in a sort of friendly tone that contained a blatant threat just beneath the surface.

Lestrade didn't have to be told twice, he'd been there for almost 24 hours, and people at work were beginning to ask questions.

 

Shortly after, he was informed by text to not contact Sherlock for the next month, which Lestrade found deeply disturbing, but couldn't do anything about.

And indeed, exactly one month to the day, Sherlock texted Lestrade looking for cases.

 

Bored. Got anything? -SH

Nothing you would consider interesting. -Lestrade

Doesn't matter. I'll be at your office in 15. Have the least boring cases ready. -SH

 

Sherlock solved the three cases in the span of an afternoon, jumping back into his consulting detective role as though he'd never left.

It had begun to get dark outside, and most of the other officers had left, when Sherlock took a break in explaining to Lestrade how stupid he was for not having noticed the blood splatter pattern. Lestrade took that opportunity, one that he knew was rather rare, to ask him.

“So what happened?” he asked conversationally. “One month, not a word, then you show up.”

Sherlock frowned slightly, not looking up from the crime scene photos. “Mycroft dragged me off to rehab. Again.”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “Mycroft?”

“My brother. And yes, I'm inclined to think our parents did hate us.”

“So, you're back now?”

“One month in rehab, I'm clean. Suitable to work again, yes, if that's what you're asking.”

“It wasn't. I mean, it wasn't just what I was asking. I was asking if you were okay.”

Sherlock looked up at him this time, slightly puzzled. “You mean how my emotional and psychological well being is. The answer is satisfactory. If anything, it's above where I've been for most of my life, and a large part of that is due to The Work. So if you're planning on taking it away or limiting it, know that it would be harmful rather than beneficial.”

Lestrade looked at him funny. “I wasn't going to do that. I just want you to never do anything like that again. It terrified me.”

Looking away again, Sherlock muttered “Apologies.”

“For god's sake Sherlock, you took a couple years of my life off with that stunt. You know that your heart stopped?”

Sherlock scowled. “Yes. Mycroft informed me of that, rather too gleefully. He also told me that I was in status for 15 minutes. I think he takes far too many liberties with helping himself to my medical records.”

Lestrade grinned. “I bet.”

 

He leaned back in his chair. “What was it you were telling me about the blood splatter pattern?” he asked innocently.

Sherlock pulled out one of the crime scene photos and began talking animatedly, Lestrade not catching most of it, too focused on Sherlock's almost gleeful expression as he talked about death.

He didn't mind.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This title is a bit different. It means 'overdose' in Latin, but not exactly. Overdose in Latin is still overdose. So I took some liberties and mashed words together.  
> But hey, it's a dead language, so I do what I want.


End file.
